


Fallible

by bissonomy (Macdicilla)



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Class Differences, Deception, Deleted Scenes, Established Relationship, Feet of Clay, Guilt, I am at once the person who just wants Vetinari to be happy and makes him unhappy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not canon compliant with that conversation at the end of FoC, faked illness, indirect culpability, spoilers for feet of clay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 07:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19127101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/bissonomy
Summary: Drumknott discovers the truth that Vetinari has already solved the case, and that the poison has claimed two victims. These facts have implications.





	Fallible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/gifts).



The poisoning had everyone in the palace on edge, except for Lord Vetinari, probably since being on edge required a certain amount of energy that arsenic took right out of a body. Drumknott in particular had his heart in his mouth, about to bite it in half at any moment. He endeavoured not to show this anxiety, since he had a distaste for excessive emotion in public. Instead, he focused on the improvements in his lord’s condition. Vetinari seemed to be in the least pain and the best lucidity late in the afternoon. This would have been heartening if he hadn’t been consistently weak, seasick, and sore at night and in the morning.

It was painful, being poisoned. It was certainly more painful than watching a loved one be poisoned, Drumknott reminded himself. At the start of all of this, he’d paid a surreptitious visit to the palace’s private library to “borrow” a book on public health and groundwater systems,[1]  flipped to the section on toxic heavy metal contamination, and bit into his hand when he read about the treatment for poisoning. The consensus among wizards was that an individual afflicted by such poisoning should be submitted to a spell that removed all the blood from the body, cleaned it, and put it back. There was a coin toss’ chance of survival. It would probably be worse if any of the wizards Drumknott knew were involved.

The Watch had brought in a horse doctor because he was better than the alternatives. He was. He was also only prescribing purgative concoctions to a man who could really not afford to lose weight. Drumknott shuddered to think of the alternatives, and tried very hard not to shudder or think.

The Watch had established very little about the poison thus far, besides that it was arsenic, which Vetinari had figured out for himself as well. They were running in circles. They’d ruled out the food, the books, the carpet, the bedding, the walls–and had gone back to checking the food when nothing else yielded results. They’d changed all the textiles in the bedroom and then moved Vetinari to a different room, just in case. It was terribly disruptive, Drumknott felt, and accomplished nothing.

He was worried, cross, and also _tired_.

Drumknott had needed to sleep in his old quarters down on the fourth floor for the last ten days, and still hadn’t gotten used to it. The room faced the wrong way. It wasn’t as bright in the mornings. It smelled of wood polish rather than of human habitation. Most of all, the sounds were wrong. He could not hear the sound of Vetinari breathing in his sleep next to him, or the sound of Vetinari’s pen scratching softly across paper when he couldn’t sleep and sat up to write.

It was miserable and it was lonely. Moreover, it meant that no one was keeping an eye on Vetinari at night.

Drumknott was quite frustrated with the Watch for not having any answers yet, though he realized on an intellectual level that this was unfair. It wasn’t as though he’d figured anything out himself either. But it was their job to untangle crimes. It was what the city required and paid them to do. They’d gone back to searching the food but Drumknott was sure their earlier hypothesis of environmental exposure was more likely. Still, what did he know? All he knew was that the arsenic was in the palace and that somehow it was only being administered to the Patrician. These thoughts congealed into the fixed idea that it would do the Patrician good to remove himself from the palace.

Late one Octeday evening, about a half- hour before sunset, when Vetinari was looking less clammy and pale than on previous days, Drumknott took the opportunity to suggest, if not plead that he take a walk outdoors in the palace gardens.

Vetinari’s mouth quirked in a slight smile.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to walk on your arm,” Vetinari said. “It would be a shame to let such a good pretence go to waste.”

In spite of himself, Drumknott also smiled. It wasn’t often that they could be openly affectionate with one another. Vetinari considered Drumknott’s position as his personal clerk risky enough already and didn’t want to paint a bigger, heart-shaped target on Drumknott’s back. Discretion was their shared byword.

The gardens were completely empty of people. The groundskeepers didn’t work on Octeday.

They got as far as the fish pond[2] before mutually agreeing to turn back. A thick, picturesque fog hung over the trees in the palace gardens and over most of Ankh-Morpork, especially the part of it closest to the river. But it was a vile-smelling fog, the unfortunate offspring of a wet autumn and factory smoke. Some weather was muggy, but this weather was aggravated assault.

“This wasn’t a good idea,” Drumknott muttered.

“No, no,” Vetinari countered, “I’m sure it was. I’m feeling wonderful already. I wanted to get out in the–”

‘Fresh’ would have been a bald-faced lie. He paused for a second, trying to think of a suitable pleasant adjective to replace it with. He found none.

“–air,” he finished.

Drumknott nodded.

It was getting dark now, and the fog dampened the little sunlight that remained. Vetinari held onto his arm as they walked down the stone path back towards the palace, though without actually putting any weight on it. He really was doing better, but it would be night soon, and he always got worse around nights, so whatever difference it made wouldn’t matter.

“Let’s retire to bed early, I think,” Vetinari said.

There it was, thought Drumknott, the fatigue settling in on schedule. Nausea and internal pains would come next and no one could do anything about it.

They had entered the palace now. Drumknott wiped his feet on the mat at the start of the corridor and stared at the deep red ivy-patterned wallpaper.

“Drumknott?” he heard a voice saying.

“Hmm?” asked Drumknott. “My lord?”

“I said, you’re miles away,” Vetinari tutted.

He wasn’t miles away, not really. His thoughts were altogether too present, but it wouldn’t do to show it.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“Let’s take your mind off it, then,” Vetinari said mildly.

There was a minute note of something in Vetinari’s otherwise plain tone that an untrained ear would not have picked up on, but Drumknott was well attuned to his intonations.

“ _Oh,_ ” said Drumknott. “You’re not tired, then?”

“No.”

“You’re sure you’re feeling well enough?”

“Yes.”

“Quite certain?”

“ _Yes_ , Rufus,” said Vetinari patiently.

They were on the rimwards stairway now. It was dimly lit, and since it was Octeday evening, there was no one in the palace besides them and the most essential staff, whose quarters were on the hubwards side of the building. The stairway was perfectly empty all five floors up. Drumknott stood two steps above Vetinari. He was not a tall man, and Vetinari _was_ one, but from where he was standing, with a firm hand on the bannister, he could lean down to catch him in a kiss.

Vetinari’s current bedroom–one of the guest bedrooms he’d been moved to during the investigation–was also unlit. Drumknott fumbled with a book of matches, but Vetinari gently took his hands in his own and shook his head. Faint, foggy lamplight from the street filtered in weakly through the sheers onto the bedroom ceiling.

The loose-fitting, comfortable sickroom clothes Vetinari was wearing were easy to slip out of quickly. Clothed only in the room’s darkness, Vetinari began to unfasten Drumknott’s cuffs and collar.

“Let’s just sleep tonight, actually,” Drumknott said.

“All right,” said Vetinari softly. “Let’s do that.”

“It’s just–with having to stay in my old room because of people coming in and out of this room–it sounds silly but–”

“You’re not accustomed to sleeping alone anymore.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been stressed.”

Drumknott opened his mouth but couldn’t deny it.

“Haven’t we all?” he said simply.

“Naturally.”

All was quiet when they lay down side by side in their narrow bed. Narrative rules would have demanded Drumknott cling to him like a survivor of a wreck clings to flotsam to forestall his own live burial at sea, or something equally overwrought, but the simple rules of bodies sharing beds and arms that fall asleep overrode narrative. Drumknott rested his head on the pillow, right above Vetinari’s shoulder, and let him drape a long, warm arm over him.

❧❧❧

In the morning, no one was ill.

Drumknott awoke just after five, since he’d gone to sleep early. Vetinari awoke at five, since that had been his routine for years. He was sitting in a chair in his dark grey cotton dressing gown, reading by gas lamp. When he perceived that Drumknott was awake, he shut his book and looked up.

“Ah,” Vetinari said, “good morning.”

“It does seem to be a good morning, yes,” Drumknott said. “You look well.”

“Your healing presence, perhaps.”

“You stop that.”

“It’s exactly like when sufferers of various ailments used to sleep at the temples of Iatromantis in old Ephebe, I believe.”

“Oh, please.”

Vetinari smiled and stopped talking, just as he was told. Drumknott began to dress himself in yesterday’s clothes.

“It is curious that _I_ haven’t been affected, though,” Drumknott mused.

“Is it? It’s probably somehow self-administered, they said.”

“Yes, but if it’s environmental, that shouldn’t matter. Something broke the pattern. If we could work backwards, we could figure out what the pattern is.”

Vetinari made a small sound of distaste and wrinkled his mouth to the side.

“Let us discuss something besides arsenic. I’m afraid I grow weary of the theme.”

Drumknott said nothing, and finished buttoning up his shirt.

“I think I could go back to work, you know,” Vetinari continued, “for a few hours. But the curious thing is that no one seems to want to bother me, so there’s nothing for me to do. The guilds are busy with internal affairs. The nobles have found a new diversion with Corporal Nobbs. The City Council doesn’t meet till two days from now, and I don’t intend to attend that meeting anyway. I do believe this is exactly like being on holiday, don’t you?”

Drumknott spun around to stare at him.

“No. It isn’t. Not at all.”

Vetinari met his gaze firmly.

“Nobody’s dying, Rufus,” he said, “you don’t need to be worried to this extreme.”

“Nobody’s dying _yet,_ ” snapped Drumknott. “I’m sorry, but I’ve read about the effects of chronic exposure to–”

“Over a period of years, surely. It’s only been a few days.”

“It’s been over a _week_!”

Vetinari winced and Drumknott’s face heated with embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to say that so loudly.

“Focus,” said Vetinari softly, rising to his feet. “The situation is under control. I promise you this. No one is coming to any harm. Don’t ask how I’m certain. Just please, please, set yourself at ease.”

Here, he placed his warm hands on Drumknott’s shoulders.

“Do it as a favour to me,” he continued. “Put the whole affair out of your mind.”

“I will at least try,” said Drumknott.

“Capital,” said Vetinari. “Would you like a fresh pair of socks, by the way?”

“Sorry?”

Vetinari strode over to a trunk on the ground at the foot of the bed and opened it.

“You can borrow a pair of mine, for now.”

“Oh,” Drumknott said. “No, there’s no need. I was headed to my old room after this. I was going to change there.”

“Right,” said Vetinari, still holding the trunk open, “of course.”

In the trunk, there was a dark green drawstring canvas bag. Its mouth lay open just so, and Drumknott could see the bases of six or seven white candles in it. Except instead of the normal, slightly rounded base candles usually had, these were perfectly flat at the bottom, as if they had been cut. As he was leaving the room, he felt vaguely that there was something he was meant to make of the sight, but had no idea what it was. Half of a thought formed, and waited for something to connect with.

❧❧❧

It connected quite abruptly when Vimes and Corporal Littlebottom came into the palace kitchens during dinner. Drumknott hated the commotion and hated having to pick bits of ceiling plaster out of his salad, but mere annoyances gave way to fury when he understood.

The bases of the candles _had_ been cut off. They’d been cut off and burned briefly to look like real stubs.

He overheard the conversation between Vimes and Miss Easy by the storage room and headed straight upstairs to Vetinari’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and Drumknott stood right outside it for a few seconds. His heart was racing.

“Ah, Drumknott,” said Vetinari. “Do come in.”

Drumknott stepped in wordlessly with a firm, resolute tread, and found Vetinari seated at his desk, writing by the light of a gas lamp. An unlit white taper stood in its holder a few inches from the inkwell. Drumknott grabbed the candle in his fingers and snapped it in half, taking care not to touch too much of it to his skin. He returned it neatly to the table.

Vetinari closed his notebook and looked up.

“Well done,” he said. “I thought you’d figure it out.”

“Well done? _Well done?_ How can you sit here, knowing everything and doing nothing? To what end?”

“I have to permit the Vimes and the Watch to resolve it on their own, of course,” Vetinari said. “There’s due process to consider, and he seems to be enjoying himself. No doubt it’ll come to a less diplomatic end than I could get away with. A small dose of controlled chaos does the city good.”

Drumknott said nothing. Vetinari looked at him closely. Drumknott’s expression was– well, Drumknott probably thought it was neutral, but it was an aggressive sort of blank. Muscles at his temple disclosed a tightly clenched jaw. His chest was slowly but deeply rising and falling. His arms were rigid by his sides.

“Ah,” Vetinari said. “You don’t like the chaos very much. They’ve just been here, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” Drumknott said, “Vimes and the dwarf. I’m afraid I’ve been curt with her. No, _I_ didn’t figure anything out, that was the Watch. Once I learned it was the candles, I knew there was no way you didn’t know. They’ve been running in circles and you–you’ve been sat here malingering. ”

“Are you cross, Rufus, that I’ve been, as you say, malingering? Surely you’ll agree it’s better than actually poisoning myself.”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” Drumknott answered coldly.

“Dear me,” said Vetinari.

“When did you realize the arsenic was in the candles?”

“Why?”

_“When did you realize the arsenic was in the candles?”_

“Not at first,” Vetinari said calmly. “I suspected as much by the second day. I was certain by the third. Is this because I didn’t tell you? You know I wish I could have done, I did try to give you a hint, but I couldn’t have told anyone. It was crucial that the situation develop so the Watch could investigate and–”

“Fuck the Watch,” Drumknott said quietly.

Vetinari raised his eyebrows. He’d never heard Drumknott use that language before.

“I’m sorry to have upset you this much,” he said.

“This has nothing to do with me, I don’t care that you let me believe you were sick.” Drumknott snapped. “This is about Mildred Easy.”

“The maid?”

“Yes. People have died. Two of her family members. She took home some of the candle stubs. Did you know they were dangerous by then?”

Vetinari froze, horrified.

“I didn’t know…” he said.

Drumknott let out a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. An apology for the outburst was on the tip of his tongue when Vetinari dropped his head forwards into his own hands and made a dreadful, anguished noise.

“I didn’t know Miss Easy was taking the candle stubs. I didn’t think of that.”

There was a silence. There was nothing Drumknott could think to say that Vetinari wasn’t already saying to himself. Vetinari did care. It was better that he cared and hadn’t thought. If he had thought and hadn’t cared, he’d have been, well, no different from most of the other lords and ladies. Unlike them, he cared about the little people. Unlike them, he strove to remember names. Nevertheless, he was still one of them.

“People always take little things from work,” Drumknott said at last.

“Not always. You don’t.”

Drumknott looked away. He hated how it felt to have their roles reversed. It wasn’t _right_ to have to explain something to Vetinari. Vetinari was supposed to already know. Vetinari was meant to be better than–than what? Than he actually was? Than any man could be? On the gods’ flat earth, there was not one infallible soul, but somehow, an irrational, secretive part of Drumknott’s psyche had gone and hoped that there might be, and found itself disappointed.

“I don’t, I buy my own paper clips,” Drumknott said. “I can afford to be proud about paperclips. Pride has a cost.”

“If she had mentioned it,” Vetinari said forlornly, mostly to himself, “I would have given her full candles, good ones, clean ones, if she needed them. Why? Why the stubs?”

“No one misses the stubs. No one wants the stubs. That’s the whole point. It’s not stealing and you don’t have to ask. The point is _not having to ask_. People don’t want to ask. No one is going to ask the _Patrician_ for spare candles,” he spat. “No one’s even going to ask the head housekeeper, Mrs. Dipplock. Don’t you get it? Don’t you get why?”

“I do now,” sighed Vetinari.

“It’s a bit late _now_.”

“I know,” he said, miserably, “I know.”

❧❧❧

When Drumknott left, Vetinari couldn’t follow him, because he had to stay in his room to keep the act up. Not in the right frame of mind to write or read, he turned off the gas lamp and lay down, alone with his thoughts.

 

 

[1] Not checking a book out through proper channels had made his skin antsy, and he had deliberated about doing so for a while until his desire for privacy won out.

[2] The fish pond, one of B.S. Johnson’s designs, spanned the width of the palace gardens, but was only an inch across. The palace employed a fish rotator who would gently lift the single trout that occupied it and turn it around when it reached the far end of the pond.

 

 


End file.
